


The Midnight Carnival

by TheBraveHobbit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, The Last Unicorn - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraveHobbit/pseuds/TheBraveHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a creature that emanated so much golden light, the gaze leveled at the magician was impressively cold. </p>
<p>First impressions: Grantaire and Enjolras meet</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Midnight Carnival

It is pleasant in the morning to be woken by the soft touches of a lover, their fingers ghosting over skin or lips tracing jawlines. He supposed it said something about him that in all his life, none of his lovers had ever cared to stay until morning, and that he was rarely awakened by anything more gentle than the tip of Madame Thenardier’s heavy leather boot.

Grantaire slept on his stomach, face buried in the cloak that served as a pillow in summer months and a blanket in the winter. The cart above him heaved and rattled with the movement of the manticore. He always slept beneath the manticore’s cage; he figured it was only fair for the two grumpy old men to share space and leave the rest of the carnival to its own devices.

Besides, the manticore was the only member of the midnight carnival that could out-snore the magician. 

“Get up, get up! You useless lout!” Madame Thenardier was always so kind and motherly in the morning, with that shrill screeching and heavy foot. It was no wonder her daughters had abandoned the carnival. Grantaire half rose, careful to keep his dark head low and not bash against the bottom of the wagon.

“Wh-what time is it?” He asked, groggily lifting a hand to pull at his face in an effort to rouse himself.

“Nearly dawn. Monsieur wants you at the ninth cage. Get moving, we’ll be open for business soon!” She kicked at him again, but he was quicker, rolling aside and pushing himself into a standing position on the other side of the manticore’s cart, as she narrowed her eyes at him through the bars.

“Yeah, alright.” Grantaire grunted, then ducked down again, reaching beneath the cart for his cloak and his hat. His hand hovered for a moment over the half-empty bottle he’d been clutching in his sleep. The manticore watched him with wide, sad eyes.

“No one asked you.” The magician grunted, tucking the bottle into a harness looped into his belt alongside his magical knickknacks. A pouch of herbs hung there, and a bone knife, and a willow wand; all the barest necessities for any magician worth his sand. Or, as was the case here, a magician who liked to pretend he was worth his sand. He sighed, straightening his hat over his dark curls.

Grantaire was not handsome of face; he possessed a prominent jaw and a large, crooked nose. The stubble upon his chin was patchy, growing unevenly over an ugly scar on his cheek. Despite his poorest of habits, however, his features were deceptively youthful. No one looking at him would take him for his true age: that was reflected only in his eyes, and they were so often dulled by his weariness that they were usually overlooked. He dressed in poor cloth, threadbare and patched. The tunic upon his back had once been a vibrant, lively green. Years and neglect had dulled it to an unrecognizable color. His cloak was in similar shape, and even his boots lacked luster, though they had once been very fine.

This disheveled appearance served him well, however. It would have been a strange thing for a reputable magician to be employed at this seedy Midnight Carnival. With holes in his hat and patches in his cloak, the magician was as tattered as the banners that draped over the circled wagons, their dulled gold font boldly proclaiming the fantastical creatures contained within, should there be any doubt that the writhing mass of scales in the third cage was a section of the Midgard Serpent, or the toothy beast that hiccupped fire was a dragonling.

Grantaire didn’t bother to look up as he walked past these wonders. He’d seen them, seen _through_ them every day since he’d come to work for the Thenardiers. The little bronze gartersnake, curled up and shivering in the corner of his cage, held no wonder for the magician, nor did the great horned lizard that so many mistook for a dragon. The withered old lion that passed for a manticore was probably the saddest of them all, curled like a kitten against the farthest wall from the onlookers. Cheap enchantments, the lot, thin and desperate glamours bestowed by Monsieur Thenardier, a descendant of a diluted line of witches. The creatures of the Midnight Carnival were as much a hoax as the Thenardiers themselves (well, except for the eighth cage. That one Grantaire gave a wide and respectful berth). The first seven creatures of the Midnight Carnival were frail shadows of the monsters they meant to portray, and he expected no more from whatever Monsieur had found to keep in the ninth and final cage.

“Well?” Grantaire asked as he drew closer, eyeing the cage without much interest. There were drapes drawn over it, and Thenardier was looking at him in a way that suggested he expected passionate curiosity. Grantaire refused to be anything but bored. The male Thenardier was taller than his wife, but not so tall as Grantaire, and though his clothes were of better quality they were no less weathered. He wore a fine hat and a soldier’s lapel. Grantaire was certain he’d stolen both of them, but it had never been something worth asking.

“You know,” Thenardier said in his nastiest voice, his eyes pointedly taking in the sloshing bottle at Grantaire’s hip, “If you didn’t waste your earnings on that swill, you’d have your debts paid by now.”

“Maybe,” Grantaire shrugged. He’d pay Thenardier what was owed, and then what? Gamble himself back into debt and start the cycle over. It’d been going on for longer than Thenardier knew, probably. Grantaire wasn’t actually certain if the witch knew the magician’s history. Either way, Grantaire was in no hurry. “But if I left, who’d entertain your sightseers? The Madame frightens them, and you’ve got your bit in the show.”

“That’s true. Your bad habits are a boon, even if you are a buffoon. That’s not why I called you over. Have a look at this.” Thenardier moved with a performer’s flair, casting aside the curtain of dark fabric that concealed the ninth cage, and Grantaire felt his entire soul contract. Whatever he had been expecting of Thenardier, this was not it. “Tell me, magician, what do you see?” The witch’s voice was wheedling, mocking.

Long years of practiced apathy served him well now, and though he struggled at first to find his voice when he did speak it was with the same even disinterest as before, “That’s the smallest horse I’ve ever seen. He looks like he can hardly stand, are you sure the glamour won’t overtax his poor heart?”

Thenardier chuckled darkly. “A horse, that’s all?”

“What else would he be?” He was keenly aware of the narrowed gaze Thenardier was giving him, judging his words and his expression. Grantaire struggled to keep them even, and he dug his fists deep into his pockets to hide the shaking of his hands. “What are you thinking, a kelpie? He looks sorta spectral already. We can rig up some water effects and—”

“I’d rather thought unicorn.”

Grantaire almost choked. He tried to turn it to a chuckle. “N-nobody believes in unicorns any longer. They’ve been gone for more than a century.”

“All the more reason to have one in my carnival.” Thenardier was almost purring. “Imagine what people would pay to see a real unicorn.”

“Only if they believe you’ve managed to cage one.”

“We’ll have to sell it then, won’t we? Leave that to me. It’s what I’m best at.” Grantaire said nothing. He was well aware of Thenardier’s ability to swindle people out of honest-earned money.

“Anyway, get about yourself, then. There’s already a queue. I just wanted to see what you saw.”

He dropped the curtain back over the cage. “I’ll cast the glamour tonight before we set out.”

“I still think a kelpie’s a safer glamour.” Grantaire shrugged. “But it’s your show, Monsieur.” 

He paused. “We’re leaving tonight, then?”

“I want to put the unicorn in the show immediately, so once you’re done with the sightseers get yourself about mucking the wagons; we’ll ride out at midnight, when the town’s abed.” And Grantaire understood. It would look too suspicious to market in the same town with a new attraction. They’d move the carnival a couple settlements over before trying to lure in a new crowd. He turned to go, reaching for the bottle at his hip, hoping to steady himself with a swig, but Thenardier gripped at his arm, nails digging painfully through the worn fabric. “And Grantaire…I want you to stay away from this cage. Don’t let me catch you sulking about.”

Grantaire shrugged him off roughly, growling, “Mind your words around a magician, witch.”

“Some magician.” Thenardier scoffed. “Don’t cross me. I’ll string you up as the harpy’s plaything.”

“I’ve no interest in your starved pony, Thenardier.”

Thenardier grunted, then turned on his heel, likely to don his costume for leading the tours. Madame Thenardier had already disappeared into her own wagon, her sandy chuckles shaking the whole carnival and lending a sufficiently eerie air to the exhibits, despite the growing light of dawn.

Grantaire waited until the witch was well out of sight before extending a hand to the curtain. He did not thrust it aside, but lifted only enough to poke his head through, staring in wonder at the creature inside. 

“I’ll be damned.” He whispered. “A real unicorn.”

“So you do know me, then.” The creature spoke with a voice like a chorus, startling the magician. “And yet you still compared me to a Kelpie.” He sounded offended, and his head was held as high as he might dare without touching the iron that surrounded him. That was the only reason he was held, Grantaire knew. The metal made the magician feel queasy with this proximity; he could just imagine how it affected this creature.

“That was for the old man’s benefit. Thenardier takes me for a fool but—” Well, he was a fool. “—even a fool ought to recognize a unicorn. How did he…” Grantaire shook his head. “Nevermind. Are you just going to stand there?”

“I do not know what you expect of me.”

“I don’t know, some magic, maybe? Gonna get yourself out, aren’t you?” Grantaire knew his voice was hungry, but he did not care.

“I cannot.”

“What?”

“I cannot. The iron is too strong.” The magician sighed.

“What’s the use of being a goddamn unicorn, then?”

“I do not see why it concerns you, at any rate.” For a creature that emanated so much golden light, the gaze leveled at the magician was impressively cold. “It sounded to me as though you stood a profit to make.”

Grantaire chuckled darkly. “Yeah, that’s right. You’ve got me all figured out.” He glanced over his shoulder, taking in the queue at the ticket booth by the first wagon. He had to get going. “Listen, there’s going to be a lull this evening, I’ll be back then. You needn’t trouble your pretty head about things until then.”

“Forgive me if I am hesitant to accept confidence from your words. You will return this evening to cast your glamour—why do I need a glamour?”

Grantaire grinned his most spectral grin, completely unoffended. “Because, those sightseers really _will_ mistake you for a pony. Nobody believes in unicorns these days. The word is, you’ve all gone and left us here to rot, though it looks like you missed the party.” He glanced back again, growing more uneasy the longer he lingered and yet unwilling to allow the unicorn out of his sight. He felt a need for closeness to the creature, and he didn’t want to contemplate why. “I have to go, but…I suppose it’s too much to ask you to trust me?”

The unicorn studied him with sad, somber eyes. Grantaire felt like the creature could see his entire soul with those eyes, and the idea made him distinctly uncomfortable.

“Who are you?” The unicorn asked.

“Grantaire the Magician, the last of the Red Hot Swamis.” He answered with a sarcastic bow that toppled his hat, and he could not help the irony and embarrassment that leaked into his voice, as he retrieved it, “Though I prefer just R. Eh—don’t feel bad. You wouldn’t have heard of me.”

“It is hardly for me to have heard of any one magician.” The unicorn’s tone was dismissive. “But I have little to lose by trusting you, I suppose.”

“Great.” Grantaire snorted. “Your faith uplifts me. Give me the rest of today, I’ll figure this out.” He dropped the curtain back over the cage and made to leave, calling softly over his shoulder in the most reassuring tone he could muster, “Be easy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Grumpy wizard Grantaire is a thing the world needed and I refuse to apologize for him.


End file.
